The Wistful Skyline
The brass pocket watch lay on the kitchen table, its face fractured by a single, jagged crack that ran from the XII to the VI, splitting the world in two. You remember the day it broke, a Tuesday in the late autumn of 1924, when the air in Harrowgate smelled of wet coal and impending winter. You were only then beginning to understand that time is not a river but a shackle, and that your father,...
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